We're Headed Up My Mom's Ass!

Half drunk, my fingers stinking of nicotine, I stare at the lines that intersect the soft skin of my palms and digits. The more I stare the more lines seem to appear. It's as if with each terrible mistake that my memory uncovers another line appears on my hand. Carving up my hand as if it were a gameboard. My hands are there to remind me that my past hasn't become any clearer and any more easy to manage, erase, or manipulate. I shove them quickly underneath the pillow in an attempt to stop my mind from remembering too much, dredging up every miscue, every regret, every failure, every half hearted attempt I have tried so valiantly to forget.

When I scratch it removes a layer of skin, but the lines remain, etched forever.